Who Needs a Title
Thunderous palpitations upon benign sedaments,
Miscreants vindicate with justice of six cents.
A vociferous tyrannosaurus bursts sickly
Sanitized wives and rodents scurry very
Sedately towards dainty cliffs and heights
Of unforeseeable depths-withered sights.
A Persian rug is spread across garnered grounds
Before touring gypsies which please sound.
Great stories gather precariously on the head
Of a pen sent from hapless flutters in bed-
Sensations traverse a thing called a universe,
Discoursing various travesties as a nurse.
In gambits trained by substantial lapels
And triumphant whores who cast spells
Of priority towards declining propellers.
But, you're right, titanically proportioned cells.
Dwelling in tumultuous storms just to feel,
To melt the ashes of memories, means to heal.
Neglect the skeptic who's late for dinner
Skinning prunes and my meat suit's a winner.
Standard debasement sits beside youth
Stinking of stale sex and sweat of a sleuth
In the waiting room planning substantial
Equations translating to aliens:
We're still here...
Copyright © Mattifa Labergero | Year Posted 2013
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